


The Hunt and The Hunted

by PeriPeriwinkle



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Face Punching, Mild Gore, Paranoia, Police Brutality, Season 3 Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-16
Updated: 2020-09-16
Packaged: 2021-03-07 00:41:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26488096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeriPeriwinkle/pseuds/PeriPeriwinkle
Summary: I’ve been scared, terrified for my life so many times these last few years. But I’ve never, not once, felt so horribly, abjectly, powerless as when she took me into that forest to kill me.I’ll never forget it.An exploration of the events that lead Jonathan Sims, The Archivist, to be threatened by Alice "Daisy" Tonner, and how said events scar him for life in more ways than one.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71





	The Hunt and The Hunted

What would you do if you knew that people were actively out to kill you?

What if you _suspected_ that was the case, people around you called you crazy, but eventually you had this confirmed to you in the worst possible way, forcing you to go into hiding?

What if you woke up every day and feared for your life?

That was Jon’s day to day for quite a while.

The paranoia was _bad_ ; Jon knew it, even if he tried justifying it. Discovering that the true origin of his paranoia was actually the result of the NotThem living amongst them certainly didn’t help, and if the mental corrosion of the whole situation wasn’t bad enough, pushing his only friends away was what did him in in the end. Georgie very sternly reminded him that he couldn’t go through rough patches in his life by himself, not trusting the people who were just trying to be there for him. Reminded him that he needed people he could confide in. He needed to learn how to feel _safe_ around them again.

It was all easier said than done.

Jon’s nagging curiosity got him in trouble his entire life. Mr. Spider wasn’t the first instance where his need to know _what comes next_ had him tangled in an intricate web of his own doing, despite a nagging feeling telling him that he knew what the answer was— _nothing good—_ from the very beginning. By all accounts said encounter should’ve been the last instance of him getting in this sort of trouble, but it was almost like the trauma of the situation made it all the worse. Discovering that there are supernatural beings and objects in this world that feed and prey on others had him wondering _what else_ existed out there. What other horrors were lurking in the shadows, waiting for the right moment to strike.

So hearing the undeniable confirmation for a question he’s had since he was a kid, that these things are _real_ , directly from the man who claimed ownership of the one book that plagued his childhood was, in one word, shocking.

There was no denying anymore. There was no denying for a long time now, but...

Now it almost felt personal. And in a way, it was.

Thanks to Leitner, Jon finally had some sort of knowledge of what these _things_ were—painfully rudimentary as that knowledge was, it was at least _something_ , and Jon took whatever he could get. He felt, in a sense, like he’d known these creatures intimately for a while now, even if from afar; recording statements from his desk at the Archives always felt like reviving these traumas, like seeing these monsters in the eye, if not literally eye-to-eye, and now that he started scratching the surface of it all and finally got a glimpse of gold he _itched_ to know more, understand all of it. Know why he was in this mess in the first place, know the answers to the questions that plagued his dreams and haunted his very existence. None of it felt coincidental, it all felt deliberate. Like the pieces that comprised his life fell together in such a way that led him to this exact place in time.

He knew he himself had a part in moving these pieces—seeking employment at the Magnus Institute, after all, was his choice, a desperate attempt to try and make sense of the questions that plagued him his entire life—but in other ways it was like he was being manipulated. Gently pushed and guided until he was tracing not the right path, but the most convenient one. By whom, however, was yet another question he was nowhere near to getting an answer to.

Which is why Jon wasn’t surprised when the first statement was delivered at Georgie’s house. The first piece on a long crumb trail that Jon could not, for the life of him, stop himself from following. So follow he did, like a mouse that’s anxious and frightened but simultaneously too hungry and curious for its own good, who knows deep down it’s a dangerous game he’s playing, a trap he’s most likely walking right into. But starved as he was for knowledge, for knowing and understanding, it felt like there was no other choice but to follow the trail that was lovingly being set out for him, gobble down on the scraps he was given, shaking and utterly scared but resolute to get to the bottom of it. Confident this may not be the right or the safest thing to do, but knowing, deep down, it was the only thing he _could_ do.

If his sanity was slipping away no matter what he did or didn't do, he might as well get answers while he’s at it.

When he met with Jude Perry he was, suffice to say, frightened. He tried not to let it show, but knew it was a futile endeavour from the start. When she burned his hand it wasn’t exactly shocking, but rather more of a price Jon knew, deep down, he had to pay to continue on his endless chase for knowledge. A price to pay to whom, pray tell? To Jude? To himself? To his god, maybe? The answers seemed so close, and yet, still just slightly out of reach. Jon felt like he could almost touch it if only he pushed himself that tiny bit more, pulled and stretched until his very limit.

Meeting Mike was almost the polar opposite of Jon’s experience with Jude. To feel yourself be plummeted down and down _and down_ into infinite open space, even if you know for a fact that you’re not _actually_ falling, probably counts as the most bizarre experience of Jon’s short-lived life, and definitely not one he’d ever be willing to repeat. Jude’s handshake hurt in a way that was nearly indescribable, but comprehensible; what Mike did to him, however, was utterly unexplainable, which made it all the worse.

But when Detective Tonner showed up on Mike’s door and knocked him out cold, Jon froze. He saw the rage in her eyes, the blood on her knuckles. The sneer on her bared teeth.

If Jon was ever scared of Jane, Jude and Mike, if he was terrified of the unknown person who killed Leitner and Getrude, frightened of the looming threat of the Circus and the being that took Sasha’s life and tampered with all of their minds… even after he’d lived and experienced these horrors, _nothing_ compared to how scared he was of Daisy right then.

There seemed to be some sort of... _mutual understanding_ between these people, these _things_ , these _beings_ that have been chosen, or rather, chose themselves to serve the gods Leitner briefly mentioned, to accept and embrace the powers that came with this decision. Powers that served no other purpose other than to hurt others. Did they all want to kill Jon, in some way? Perhaps. Or maybe that was Jon’s ego, or his paranoia, speaking much too loudly for his own good. After all, who _was_ Jon, in the grand scheme of things? They certainly wouldn’t mourn him if he died, but at the same time, their threats were all they were: _threats_. They, perhaps, saw in Jon the person they once were at the very beginning, in the _before_ times. Confused. Lost. Filled with questions and looking for answers. They knew it was just a matter of time before he either perished to the things he was chasing after or simply embraced his fate, much like they all did, eventually. So they spared him, but not before toying with him. Having their fun. Showing him what they’re capable of, enjoying the thrill of demonstrating just a small iota of the power they yield, of threatening someone who knows said threats are not empty, and whether or not you will perish in their hands is completely arbitrary.

But Daisy?

Daisy wasn’t like them.

She punched Mike over and over again without a second thought, without pulling back. Without letting him defend himself, before he could even get a word in. Cold and calculated. No remorse when his body finally hit the ground.

And then she turned to Jon, still sitting on the man’s dining chair, paralyzed with fear, holding on to his seat like a lifeline as the vertigo slowly worked its way out of his system. As he tried desperately to overcome the whiplash of everything that was happening around him.

One second he had his eyes closed tightly as he experienced freefall, his lungs incapable of breathing in or out, his body feeling the cold of a nonexistent wind billowing past him as he plummeted down to his likely death. The other, he was back in Mike Crew’s flat, sitting in his chair, being offered a grim smile along with a rare olive branch.

And in the blink of an eye the man was knocked out cold, sprawled on his own living room floor, nose twisted and lip bruised, blood flowing from his mouth and staining the carpeted floor.

And sectioned police officer Daisy Tonner now had her sharp eyes on Jon.

And she wouldn’t be as benevolent as Jude or Mike.

She wanted blood. And he was her prey all along.

For a second Jon almost regretted telling Daisy the man wasn’t human anymore. Despite all the atrocities he’d committed against other people, did _anything_ justify what was being done to him? Picked up off the floor by the scruff of his shirt like a ragged doll and further beaten to a pulp, just to _really_ make sure he wouldn’t wake up? Was there any point to such gratuitous violence, besides the fact that she _could_ and, therefore, _would_ , with no worry of repercussions? Jon looked away, bile rising to the back of his throat. Remembering that he, too, was very much like Mike, in a sense. Too much like Mike, even, at least in her eyes.

Would he end up the same way as him?

When Daisy punched him just to get him to shut up Jon knew that the answer to that question was very much _yes_. If she had anything to say about it, he would. Not a second thought given.

No remorse whatsoever, not for Mike and not for him, when his time eventually came.

Beaten and bloodied, face twisted and deformed, carried like a sack of old potatoes to the trunk of a beaten up old truck. That’s the fate that had befallen Mike, in the end, and most likely dozens of other people before him, Jon guessed as he eyed the dark stains that covered the bottom of Daisy’s trunk. The fate that awaited Jon. An unconscious body handled carelessly before being discarded like trash.

Jon sat beside Daisy on the truck, his hand shaking violently as he buckled up, and off they went. Daisy kept one hand atop the gun holstered around her waist, and Jon kept nervously glancing at it, his body trembling whenever her fingers twitched over the grip, less a silent threat and more of a promise.

He looked out the window with some difficulty, to get his mind off of the weapon sitting right beside him and to try and make sense of where exactly they were going. At one point, several minutes into their makeshift road trip, he was pretty sure they weren’t in the outskirts of London anymore; urban-looking flats gave way to sparsed out houses, the road they were in considerably patchier and more rundown than the one they came from, until they took a sudden sharp turn right into the woods. The drive from that point on was turbulent, the truck shaking violently as it navigated further and further away from the main road and down the makeshift off-road path; Jon’s hands wrapped tightly around his seatbelt, his burnt hand aching something fierce, bleeding sluggishly through the bandages after a particularly violent lurch scared him enough to make him forget the pain in favour of tightening his hold. What was pain in the face of such deep, guttural fear, after all? Along with his hand, Jon vaguely registered his eye and cheekbone throbbing, a big purple bruise most likely blooming where Daisy struck him earlier, but it was all background noise in comparison, the sensations easily drowned by the anxiety that dominated every rational thought in his mind.

They finally stopped when the trail ended at a denser patch of trees. Daisy barked at him to get off the truck, popped the trunk, and ordered him to help her carry Mike’s body, not bothering to explain where to. Jon eyed her gun warily and did as he was told, too afraid to argue lest she decided he wasn’t worth the trouble after all.

She at least gave him the courtesy to have him hold the man’s feet, so Jon didn’t get to see Mike’s mangled and ruined face one last time before she shot him in between the eyes.

It’s hard to describe a fear so intense, so vivid that, when you close your eyes months, even _years_ later, you remember how it felt to be there as if it’d happened yesterday. Jon remembers the way he jumped with the bang of the gun, remembers the way his muscles tensed up when Daisy turned to him and held out a hand, gesturing for him to hand over his satchel bag.

One thing that stuck out to Jon in that moment was a splatter of blood on Daisy’s pant leg. Dark red, seeping into the fabric of her jeans, and Jon could not look away. _Soon this will be you_ , a voice in his head unhelpfully informed him. He breathed in as well as he could, fidgeting in place as Daisy went through his belongings one by one, throwing most of them onto the grass like useless garbage. Jon noted, leaning against a tree just a few feet away from him, a spade. Big and rusty, old dark spots on the dirty wooden handle. Blood. Dried and oxidized. Jon looked down, and if he paid close attention he could see the places where the dirt had been shifted, and vaguely, _numbly_ , he wondered how deep these people were buried. How many of them there were. How long since Daisy’s first kill was brought here, miles away from civilization, hidden in such a way to allow for the flora and fauna around them to consume them in a matter of months.

Jon wondered if anyone even noticed they were gone, or if one day they existed and in the very next they just... didn’t.

He wondered if anyone would ever find his bones. _Probably not_ , he figured with a resolute detachment that scared him more than most things in that clearing did.

Suddenly Daisy’s tone shifted completely, snapping Jon out of his grim thoughts. Where before she was bored, maybe a bit irritated, now she sounded nothing short of angry, and that made Jon’s blood run cold. Out of it as he was he at first didn’t understand what exactly had changed, but the way she snarled out the words _sneaky little freak_ had his stomach dropping, his body seizing up. He gaped and stuttered when Daisy locked her eyes onto him, filled with pure fire and rage, the tape recorder running in her hand, and slowly it all made sense. He considered trying to defend himself, explain that he hadn’t done anything, but as he stumbled through the words he realized there was no point. She’d already created an image of him in her mind, of who he was, what he’d done. She had _decided_ he was dangerous, _guilty_ , and so ridding the world of him would be a favour instead of a tragedy. It would be _righteous_ , but more than that, it would be _deeply satisfying_. And nothing he had to say to her, none of his flimsy excuses and weak defences would ever change her mind.

The only reason why he was still alive was because he was useful. But it was only a matter of time before distrustfulness trumped over usefulness, and that time had finally arrived.

Jon first begged, then when that didn’t seem to work he quickly shifted gears, clumsily trying to compel her one last time, rip the answers out of her before his eventual demise. If he was to die, might as well die knowing what he died _for_.

In reality, Jon knew the answer to his question. Even as panic flooded his senses and left him nearly incoherent. But he wanted to hear it from her, for some reason. Have the confirmation out in the open straight from the source.

Would that even satisfy him, he wondered as Daisy wrapped a hand around his throat, fingers tightening against his windpipe, his own pocket knife pressing deep into his skin.

A memory came to mind, then: a bored TV chef telling his audience at home that a blunt knife is leagues more dangerous than a sharp one. With one digging into his skin, he finally understood why. It took effort and brute strength for the blade to break the skin, whereas a properly sharpened blade would’ve sunk in with ease. Blood poured from his wound, and Jon couldn’t help but struggle, hands grasping Daisy’s wrist, trying, fruitlessly, to make it ease the hold against his windpipe.

 _Maybe it’s better this way_ , a morbid part of his brain suggested. Make Daisy work for it, with a blunt pocket knife and scrambling fingers.

What a weird thing to think about before dying.

\---

Jon doesn’t die, after all.

Basira emerges from between the trees at almost the very last second and argues with Daisy until she finally, _finally_ allows Jon to speak. Spares him so he can make himself useful, if only for a bit longer. When she finally lets him go he immediately sags down, hands against his knees as he takes blessedly deep breaths in. He swallows and feels warm blood running down his neck and soaking the collar of his shirt, making it stick uncomfortably against his collarbone. There are dark spots at the edge of his vision, the shrubbery spinning slightly as he struggles to catch his breath.

He glances, once again, at Mike Crew. Assassinated carelessly, with less than a second thought. Jon knows he should feel lucky to not be sharing a grave with him today, but the life events that've led him to here, to this moment, have been scaring him half to death, and although he’s sure he doesn’t want to die, being spared almost doesn’t feel like a mercy. He’s _changing_ , irreparably and unequivocally, into something he doesn’t understand, like a freight train running at full speed with no breaks towards a brick wall, and he doesn’t like it one bit.

The spade is heavy in his hand in more ways than one, and the cove they dig for Mike is shallower than he expected it would be. When he asks why not make it deeper, Daisy glares, making him jump and bite his tongue, but after a pointed glare from Basira she just shrugs. Utterly unconcerned about the possibility of anyone ever finding Mike’s remains.

Jon rides in Basira’s car on their way back, Daisy following closely behind on her truck. He balls his hands tightly over his lap, tries to make them stop shaking, to no avail. The trip is, once again, utterly silent, but this time it’s a comfortable one. Jon trusts Basira, despite the fact that he knows he shouldn’t.

After all, she knew where to find them.

She _knew_. And yet. She’s done _nothing_ about it.

Jon looks out the window and feels his heart hammering in his chest. A trembling finger touches the cut on his throat, the pain now making itself very much known as the adrenalyn that was running through his system slowly wears off. Basira tells him it probably won’t need stitches, says she’ll stop at a pharmacy once they reach London, tells him she’ll help him clean and dress the wound, but all he can do is nod wordlessly.

Jon knows with a certainty that frightens him that this won’t be the last time his life is threatened. He’s nowhere near to finding all the answers to his questions, after all. But he knows, without a doubt, that it’s the one that’ll stick with him.

When he leans his head against the window and cries, Basira looks away and pretends not to notice. Focuses on the road, and nothing else.

If they’re the good guys, Jon ponders, then there’s no one there to keep the bad ones in check. And, sometimes, that’s what scares him the most.

**Author's Note:**

> so... 178, huh?
> 
> what a ride.
> 
> apologies for any errors or inconsistencies, this fic was mostly unbeta'd. I hope you all enjoy it anwyay <3


End file.
